


Red Fox, Silver Fox

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Traits, Class Structure, Fox Tails, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Society is highly class divided and your place in the hierarchy is determined by the colour of your tail fur, with silver fur ranking highest and red lowest, the other colours falling anywhere in between.</p>
<p>Lestrade, a silver fox, is happy with his station as the relatively low rank of detective inspector. While on an errand in Whitehall he bumps into Mycroft, a red fox. They strike up conversation and seem to click before going their separate ways.</p>
<p>Half a year later they meet again and this time, Greg knows he wants to stick around Mycroft, whatever society says. The elder Holmes seems rather reluctant to become more than friends, though he chooses to spend a lot of time around the inspector.</p>
<p> His reluctance might have deeper ties to something going on in Whitehall, but who says that is to stop a detective inspector?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance Meetings in Whitehall

**Author's Note:**

> This came about after reading a comment from TexMex007 who said that the term red fox, silver fox should be a fic. That sent my brain working and after a brainstorm, this is what I came up with.
> 
> I still am no good at summaries, it seems. Apologies.
> 
> No beta or britpicker, all mistakes are mine

He honestly did not have the time for this. It sounded clichéd even in his own head but the fact of the matter was that he was pretty much snowed under with work at the moment. Though most of it was paperwork, it did not make being forced to sit in a damned hallway and wait feel any less like a colossal waste of his time.

His tail swished slightly, communicating the irritation that he otherwise wasn’t displaying. He gave it a look and sighed. No matter how much he learned to control his body language – and he had had to cultivate that in order to be in the job that he had – his tail had a tendency to betray his emotions when they were strong enough and it bothered him to no end.

Absently stroking his hand through the fur of his tail, Greg took another look around the ludicrously expensive interior that made up the hallway. The dark wood panelling and likewise floor and ceiling were a given; so were the baroque demi lune tables standing at either end of the hallway as well as the deliberately understated lamps. The high backed Georgian oak chair he was sitting on was one in a line of such chairs meant for the people waiting and it was highly uncomfortable to sit in for any length of time to boot, as Greg knew to his cost over the years.

It felt rather like being back at school, sitting outside the head’s office and waiting for your punishment. Even the slight feeling of dread that was cultivated in the back of the mind and in the very pit of the stomach by the extended wait periods was eerily similar. For that reason the inspector opted for his strategy back at school; leaning slightly back to rest his head against the wall, relaxing his body as much as possible and closing his eyes. The wait was designed to make one ill at ease to put the other in a superior position when they finally deemed it worth their time to call you in. Letting your mind wander a bit had proven to be the best strategy in that scenario.

The silence of the room was eventually broken, not by the sound of a wooden door opening but by the hard, echoing sound of shoes hitting solid wooden flooring. Lestrade forewent opening his eyes as it was more than likely just a clerk or secretary hurrying through the hallway on his or her way to whatever place they were needed. It didn’t need his input in any way.

He did open his eyes when the footsteps stopped close to him and the air expelled from the seat indicated a person sitting down next to him. Even idle chitchat would while away the time better than just sitting and waiting. He turned his head and took in the person next to him. The first thing that struck him was the rather prominent nose dusted with a smattering of freckles. The second was the mouth that, although looked at in profile, looked curved and soft for a man’s. Then he noticed somewhat prominent cheekbones and a jaw that would have been strong if not for the slight amount of fat covering it. It was only when he’d noticed all of that that it occurred to him the man was a redhead. Perfectly coiffured and slightly thinning, the hair was leaning more towards the ginger side of the spectrum.

Without giving it any conscious thought, Greg found himself glancing down. There, curled loosely around the wool-covered thigh, was the tail of matching colour. The fur on it was somewhat longer than was the norm and the tail looked well cared for; there didn’t seem to be a tangle anywhere and the coat itself was glossy and neat.

A small, barely audible cough brought the inspector out of his thoughts and he looked back up to find the other man fixing him with a calm and rather calculating gaze, his face otherwise expressionless.

Greg realized his faux pas as soon as their eyes met. There was no shame in taking stock of someone else, tail included, but prolonged looking at the appendage without prior consent was considered very rude indeed.

“Sorry about that,” he said with an apologetic smile as he raked a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “That was a bit rude, wasn’t it? Foot in my mouth sometimes.” He held out a hand. “My name is Greg.”

The redhead continued to just look at him and for a moment, it seemed very likely that he was going to ignore the outstretched hand and tune Greg back out. Then something seemed to glint in his eyes and he took the hand in his own, gripping it firmly.

“Mycroft,” he returned as he shook the hand.

Looking at the other man – Mycroft – Greg was struck with the thought that though you could not exactly call the man handsome there was something strangely attractive about him and the inspector had the sneaking suspicion that if you get the man to smile, genuinely, it would be something to see. Something that he suddenly wanted to see.

“So, what are you in for?” At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, he cursed mentally and tried to elaborate. “This always reminds me of school, outside the head’s office, you know?” It seemed like he had an affinity for putting his foot in his mouth today.

To Greg’s surprise and relief, the redhead didn’t seem offended; instead there was an actual quirk of the lips.

“Quite,” he replied. He was silent again, but then he added, “I will grant the waiting facilities at my old school that their chairs were considerable more comfortable to sit on for any length of time than these antique, quite expensive torture devices.”

Lestrade blinked. That was unexpected – both the comment itself and the deadpan look saying it. Unexpected but certainly not unwelcome.

He found himself cracking a grin. “Definitely. But then again, that’s the point, isn’t it? To make you sit and wait until your brain either trickles out your ear or you’re so anxious that when they eventually come and get you, you’ll be in no position to argue with them.”

“Most people nowadays would more than likely while away the time on their mobile devices,” the redhead pointed out, “thus depriving the higher ups of the mental upper hand in these situations.” Another ghost of a smiled appeared on his lips. “Though I have to say, in most cases that is hardly a difficult undertaking, electronic distractions or not.”

“There’s a point,” Greg agreed amiably, not caring that making fun of his superiors where they might hear might not be the smartest of moves in the circumstances.

He leaned back a little once more, careful of his tail as he did so, and gave his impromptu companion a sideways look. “You know, that wasn’t at all a bad way of sidestepping the question I asked you. Perhaps not the most creative I’ve ever seen but quite efficient, really. Or, it would have been in different circumstances but then again, I suppose you have practice.”

There it was; the skirting around the issue of the other’s most likely employment. It wasn’t that only the people born with red tails became clerks and secretaries or that it was the only type of job they could get but it was prevalent enough a job type for them that the stereotype had evolved. It had even become so embedded in the collective consciousness that for them to get any job that was not in some way subservient was highly unlikely. People did so like to be able to put others into boxes and label them.

Greg grimaced slightly, certain that he’d again made a faux pas. It must be because he was tired that he managed to do it over and over again in front of this man; either that or he’d stepped into some stupid romantic comedy and he wasn’t certain he could handle that.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied calmly, not looking angry or offended but not being carefully blank either. “It is always a good idea to cultivate what you have a talent for and after all, where would government be without the hardworking civil servants?”

“Probably a whole lot less confused and with a good deal more cash to actually spend on proper causes?” Lestrade quipped.

The redhead barked out a sudden laugh at that, surprising not only the inspector but apparently also himself. It ended almost as soon as it had begun but Greg had the very definite feeling that getting any kind of unchecked, unevaluated emotional response was no easy task.

“That I highly doubt,” Mycroft said after a pause, face again calm but a small amount of mirth lingering in his eyes. “We are not all of the Appleby mould, either.”

Greg’s eyebrows drew together for a moment then smoothed out as the penny dropped. “Really? You could’ve fooled me and I’ve been to Whitehall far too much as it is.”

The question of ‘why’ wasn’t spoken out loud but it was clear and hanging in the air nevertheless. “I’m a detective inspector at New Scotland Yard,” he offered by way of explanation.

The silence resumed, pointedly indicating that that was hardly a sufficient explanation, which it probably wasn’t, so he tried again.

“High profile murders sometimes have repercussions that reach into the depths of Whitehall and the commissioner likes to send in his prized lapdogs to deal with ‘the silver’ as he likes to call them.” He gave his tail a pat for emphasis.

It wasn’t that he really enjoyed most of the privileges that came with fur of the ‘right’ colour; if anything, he would have greatly preferred to have a black tail like most of his family. That way, perhaps he wouldn’t have had to take so much shit for his choice of careers or the fact that he hadn’t at the very least risen to a rank of at least Chief Superintendent or, preferably, Deputy Assistant Commissioner.

The thing was, though, that Greg liked his job as a detective inspector. He hadn’t asked to have silver fur; the whole thing was just a question of phenotypes and genotypes, something out of his control. He had wanted to be a cop since he’d been old enough to watch the old cop shows, ‘The Sweeney’ being one of his all-time favourites, and it always irked him when people felt they had the right to judge.

He found that he was glaring slightly at the other man as if daring him to comment further, which was ridiculous. The man hadn’t taken offense when they’d been talking about his choice of employment, lack of choice though it most likely was, so Lestrade really had no right to get his knickers in a twist because of something that was merely perceived.

Softening his features as best he could, Greg tried for another easy smile. “It has to be good for something, I suppose but honestly, I’d take a serial killer with a weird memento fetish over being forced to sit here and wait or being chewed out by fat men in expensive suits. Hell, I’d prefer the damn paperwork instead.”

Mycroft looked like he was about to say something when there was a small sound. He pulled something out of his trouser pocket and scanned the text that had arrived on his phone. Ginger eyebrows drew together in a slight frown as he read but returned to a calm facade when he looked back at the inspector.

“I am afraid I must leave you, Inspector,” he said. “It seems my presence is needed somewhere else than here and I must obey.” Greg tried to tell himself there wasn’t a subtle hint of sarcasm attached to the last part of the sentence.

The red fox stood up, rather gracefully at that, and held out a hand which Lestrade grabbed and shook. “Thank you for being a most unexpected diversion.”

“Erhm, yeah, you’re welcome,” Greg replied, not entirely certain whether that was a compliment or not. “See you around?”

Mycroft made a small humming noise in response that seemed neither agreement nor disagreement. Then he gave a small nod, turned on his heels and walked back the way he had come, posture straight and steps measured as he walked.

Greg couldn’t help noticing how well the fabric of the trousers stretched over the arse even obscured by the slightly swinging tail as it was. He squirmed a bit on the chair. If they would just hurry up already.


	2. Meeting again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets Mycroft quite unexpectedly again at Sherlock's hospital bedside and once again, they seem to hit it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely feedback, everyone, especially the comments and the questions. Means a lot to me, it really does.
> 
> Still no betas or britpickers.

Hurrying down the hallway of the hospital wing, Greg cursed under his breath the whole way to the room he was aiming for. The trip was not helped by the fact that it seemed like every single patient and nurse on his way was determined to walk into his path.

“He is bleeding well going to be the death of me, arrogant, insensitive, genius _bastard_!” he mumbled, stepping out of the way of someone yet again and increasing his speed.

When John had first arrived on the scene and become Sherlock’s flatmate, Lestrade had harboured the glimmer of hope that it would mean he could relax just slightly; that the doctor would keep an eye on the mad Holmes and make sure that he wouldn’t endanger himself unnecessarily anymore. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

_No_ , he amended mentally, _that’s not quite fair._ John had put considerable effort into making sure Sherlock was taken care of but as soon as there was danger to be found, John was right alongside Sherlock, barrelling into the danger head on. His soldier training did a wonderful job in ensuring that they came out of that danger much more... _whole_ than had been the case before he became a part of the consulting detective’s life, mind, but it was still beyond frustrating. Not to mention worrying.

When he finally reached the room where they had placed Sherlock, he stopped and took several calming breaths before he pushed open the door.

The room held several beds but all but one of them were empty. Not that the staff could really be blamed for that; they’d dealt with the impatient and often cantankerous genius too often to let their other patients bear the brunt of his ire.

At one side of the occupied bed stood John, arms crossed and a look of long-suffering patience on his face. When he met Greg’s eyes, his own eyes rolled and he sighed. Lestrade nodded in understanding, though he also glared to let John know that neither of them was out of the woods just yet.

In the bed Sherlock was rendered somewhat immobile by the fractured clavicle, the massive bruising all down his side and the displaced hip. That did in no way stop Sherlock from trying to get out of the bed.

“Lestrade,” he said as soon as he spotted the silver fox, “I trust you and your team were competent enough to arrest the rest of the gang?” “Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” Greg replied curtly, not really in the mood for jabs at his competence. “You can thank John for actually detaining the guy you were chasing. Honestly, what the bleeding hell was the idea of jumping off the fire escape?”

“He would have gotten away if I hadn’t,” Sherlock said in what appeared to be a calm voice but there was a definite hint of petulance in it. He looked between the two. “I suppose we can go home now or do we need to give statements first?”

John snorted. “Not on your life, you tosser. You get to stay there and heal now as penance for being an absolute arse earlier. You’re lucky you landed as you did or you’d have broken much more than your clavicle.” The tip of his tail flicked back and forth as if in agreement.

Sherlock shot him a glare to indicate that luck had absolutely nothing to do with it. “I don’t see why I have to stay here to heal. You can take care of any troubles as well back in Baker Street. I trust you to do a rather better job than the idiots here.”

“As flattered as I am by the confidence, Sherlock, I am not going to be moved on this. You could have internal bleedings and that I can’t deal with at home.” A wicked glint came into John’s eyes as he shot Greg a glance. “Besides, you’re going to have a visitor.”

Before Sherlock could deduce anything or even argue, the door swung open and a figure as tall as Sherlock stepped through it, walking up to the bed with measured steps. An umbrella made a counterpoint to the clack of the shoes.

Greg stared at the man. Of all the places and after all this time, this was where he was going to meet him again? There was absolutely no mistaking the man either; although it had been half a year since their last encounter, he had not faded from the inspector’s memory as most people briefly met tended to. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The red fox, not sparing a look at anything but the patient, stopped on the side of the bed, directly opposite John, and looked at the man in the bed. Sherlock, in turn, glowered from beneath dishevelled curls and would undoubtedly have turned away had he been able to. As it was, it took a warning hand from the doctor to keep him from trying.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he growled.

“Oh, merely to see how you managed to incapacitate yourself this time,” Mycroft said with a smile that seemed plastered on which therefore was slightly unsettling. “You do manage the most spectacular injuries, I have to say – and here I thought I could trust the good Doctor Watson to keep an eye out for your welfare.”

_My sentiments exactly_ , Greg thought, wondering what connection there was between a senior civil servant and the world’s only consulting detective. There was something in their faces and in the way they acted that seemed similar but absolute certainty eluded him.

“Would you two cut it out?” John snapped, the fur on his tail bristling at the tip. "Christ, it’s like dealing with children.” He forced on a smile. “I had the USB port but you’ll have to ask your brother where he squirreled it away.”

_What, brother? **That** is Sherlock’s brother?_ Lestrade was more than a little surprised, to put it mildly.

“No need, John. He has always been rather obvious in his hiding spots.” To prove his point, he leant forward and plucked the port from where the younger Holmes was gripping it tightly with the toes of his left foot.

“Obvious to you, maybe,” John muttered under his breath. Mycroft made a noise that was hard to identify but Sherlock had a quirk to his lips that looked suspiciously like a small smirk.

Then the consulting detective’s eyes slid over and lingered on Greg for a moment before they flickered back to his brother and the small smirk widened.

Feeling a little uncomfortable and needing to actually get on with his job, Lestrade cleared his throat. “Right, I’d best be off. Some of us can’t pick and choose when we work and what with. Glad to see you’re not too injured, Sherlock, and I’ll have you down filling out statements as soon as you’re discharged. No argument – I know you can write with the other hand in a pinch and if not, you’re capable of dictating.”

Sherlock merely snorted at that and turned his eyes skywards, clearly bored. John gave him a nod and mimed a phone and a glass. Greg nodded back and started walking towards the door when Mycroft stopped him by holding out his umbrella.

“I don’t see why you don’t take their statements right now,” he said in a pleasant tone, offering a small smile that seemed a lot more genuine than the last. “After all, this is about as still as you’re ever going to get my brother while doing something he does not want to do. I’m certain the hospital will be kind enough to furnish you with pen and paper, should you not have anything on you.”

The growl from behind was easily identifiable and Lestrade couldn’t help the grin that broke out on his face. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Thank you, Mycroft.”

“Not at all, Inspector,” Mycroft returned as his smile widened slightly. He held out his free hand and Greg shook it. “One good turn deserves another, after all. I hope the next time we meet will be in more...pleasant circumstances.”

With that, he walked out the door, not bothering to give any kind of parting remark to the two Baker Street residents but neither seemed particularly surprised by that.

On the contrary, they were both focused on the inspector; Sherlock’s small smirk had returned and his black tail flicked slightly while John’s eyebrows had shot up as far as they would go and his lips were pursed in that peculiar way he had when he was amused but trying not to show it. He was failing rather spectacularly, in Lestrade’s slightly cross opinion. The white fur at the tip of his tail bristled in his irritation.

“Right – I’ll be right back with a piece of paper, then.”

After he’d gone John turned to his flatmate, the amusement now quite plainly written. “Well, there’s a turn-up for the books.” “Indeed. Though I would have credited Lestrade with a bit more taste than that – or that he would at least go after someone who’s amenable to his advances.”

John chuckled but stopped when he saw that Sherlock was serious. “What? Sherlock, you can’t tell me you couldn’t tell the interest was mutual?” There was no reply. “Oh, come on. You’re the great consulting detective that claims he notices everything and you can’t spot when your own brother is interested in someone? I don’t believe you.”

“I try to make it a matter of principle to know as little about my brother as I possibly can,” the younger Holmes sniffed indignantly and that proved, to John, that he was lying. Sherlock was always keenly aware of his brother, mostly because he was one of the few that could keep up with him intellectually, older sibling mentality or not.

He didn’t say so, though. Instead he put his fingers over his mouth in a contemplative manner. “So...what do we do?”

“Asides from mock them both, you mean?” Sherlock’s tail stiffened in pain as it was jabbed by John’s fingers as punishment for the remark.

“Do that and I take away the oil you use to keep that – “ he pointed at the tail which flinched away from his finger – “looking sleek and glossy.”

The consulting detective tried to look as if he couldn’t be less bothered by the fact but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He took a ridiculous amount of pride in his tail, whatever he would have others believe, and so the threat was tangible.

Their discussion was cut short by the reappearance of the detective inspector, walking purposefully into the room. He glared at both of them for the reappearance of their smiles and pointedly put his pen to the newly acquired paper.

“Right, then, gentlemen. Do start talking.”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg set down the tumbler after knocking back the rest of the whisky it had contained. When the landlord reappeared behind the counter, he signalled for a fill up. He felt like he’d more than earned it.

It had been anything but a relaxing day; not counting the incident with Sherlock, there had been the arrest of the gang they had been chasing, interviews with the first few of them which seemed like they would never end and loads and loads of paperwork, though he’d doled out a good deal of that to Sally, much to her obvious irritation. There had to be _some_ perks to being a detective inspector.

In fact, one of the few bright spots had been meeting Mycroft again and especially the surprisingly easy banter they’d shared, though the revelation he was a Holmes had been rather unexpected.

While it wasn’t uncommon for siblings to have different tail colours, much like differences in hair colour, black and red tails weren’t a usual combination in one family. It did, however, explain the air about Mycroft that Greg had sensed when they had first met; for a ginger, a group used to having been handed the short end of the stick throughout their lives, if they got a stick at all, the quiet air of dignity and, more importantly, of power did not make much sense. As a Holmes, it made a great deal more sense.

Lestrade took a sip of his newly refilled whisky and let out a sigh. He couldn’t deny he felt attracted to the other man but to be honest, he’d as likely get a promotion to commissioner and _like_ it as he was to get a piece of that arse.

Be that as it may, there wouldn’t be any harm in trying to strike up a friendship with the man. Of course, that would require managing to meet each other on at least a somewhat regular basis and the likelihood of that wasn’t that great either.

“I’ll just have to find out where exactly he works,” he muttered as he took another swig. He might not be Sherlock Holmes but he was a detective. He should be able to track the red fox down with relative ease.

 

* * *

 

 

“Seriously, though, what do we do?”

The two Baker Street residents were sitting in the cab on their way back home after Sherlock’s discharge from the hospital about a day later. He was only discharged, after he’d been checked for internal bleeding with no result, on the condition that John would look after him and nurse him, though the doctor suspected that it was just as much in order to get some peace and quiet back to the ward. Not that he blamed them; in fact, their pained expressions were the reason he’d agreed to go back on letting Sherlock stay.

“Why should we do anything? Honestly, the whole notion of romantic attachment and especially the matchmaking syndrome are both patently ridiculous as well as absurd and I don’t see why you are so determined to try and encourage it in either Lestrade or my brother.”

“Quite,” John replied a touch too happily. “So, what we have is purely physical mutual gratification and an ability to put up with each other on a daily basis, hm?”

A small, usually repressed part of John expected Sherlock to snort and derisively confirm just that but while the man did snort, he proceeded to look incredulously at the doctor. “No, of course not. You know that perfectly well, John, don’t be an idiot.”

“Well, sometimes you could fool me,” John muttered which earned him a glare. “Anyway,” he continued in a louder voice, “if you need any incentive for you to help them out, try to think of it as a Mycroft with both the government to rule and a partner to keep happy will have far less time on his hands to be poking his big nose into you and your cases.”

As Sherlock’s eyes brightened, John hadn’t the heart to point out that it could also be that with Lestrade as a partner, Mycroft would as likely have an easier way of keeping track of Sherlock’s movements, at least on cases. Then again, that might cut down on the time the red fox himself spent on them.

Whatever the outcome of that might or might not be, John decided he’d try his hand at matchmaking for his friend and his lover’s brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always worry about the first couple of chapters, especially the second - can I live up to what I started? Anyway, this chapter ended up a with a bit more John and Sherlock than intended and the pace is nowhere near fast but it will have a point. :)
> 
> Feedback, with the criticism being constructive, is absolutely loved and treasured :D


	3. Fruitless search...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tries to find Mycroft again. Is he successful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait in chapters to the few, sweet people following this. I shall get better.  
> Thank you very much for the feedback, it's been lovely.  
> Oh, and Texmex made me this absolutely wonderful thing (hope it's okay to share):  
> https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B81sD13ewaxvY2F5TU1qVzRJMGc/edit?usp=docslist_api

It shouldn’t be this difficult. He raked a hand through his hair once, twice, frustrated and annoyed as he stared at the screen in front of him. It really shouldn’t be; the name of Mycroft was anything but a common given name and when you added the surname of Holmes it should be a doddle to find the man’s details. At the very least his place of employment within Whitehall itself should be locatable. The fact of the matter was, however, that even after a few weeks of searching and asking around, he was still no closer to finding the man.

He’d tried going through service records of the civil servants but while the connections he’d built up over the years, helped along by his social status, had come in helpful in dredging up some records there had been no mention of a Mycroft Holmes anywhere on them. He’d then asked the same connections whether they’d seen the ginger haired man but they were rather unhelpful in that regard as well; some out of a genuine and rather innocent perplexity as to his identity, some out of a sense of spite or superiority towards Lestrade and some out of ignorance of anyone below their own station in life and in particular of those of red hues.

After that he tried the people who were connected to the civil service but were not themselves working in Whitehall, the connection growing more and more strenuous as he kept turning up nothing until at last, after weeks of exhausting every possibility he could think of, he had to concede defeat, at least in terms of official records.

It didn’t cross his mind once that the man didn’t actually work there in some capacity. Not only was it far from easy to get into the inner corridors if you did not have business there that was known and verified, the man had, on the two occasions Lestrade had met him, had an air about him that was unmistakable as anything over than some sort of state official. The silver fox was beginning to doubt, however, whether the man really was as low-ranking as he obviously liked to come off as or that his tail would suggest. To remain that hidden from prying eyes required some skills and connections that were very unlikely for a normal red tailed civil servant.

There was of course always the possibility of asking Sherlock but almost as soon as he’d thought of it, he dismissed it. It wasn’t so much the derision or scorn of his lack of observational or detective skills that was sure to follow; he was used to that treatment almost every time the younger Holmes deigned a case worth his time. It was more that he could do without the merciless deductions of feelings he hadn’t yet sorted out for himself. John he might trust with the information but Sherlock? Not so much.

So after turning up nothing on a repeated basis, he was forced to admit defeat, however reluctant he was to do so. Mycroft clearly didn’t want to be known and he had taken great pains to achieve that. What was more, the fact that there had been no word or any other form of contact from the elder Holmes during all Greg’s weeks of searching gave the distinct indication that the wish to see the other again was quite unrequited. This was not helping the mood of the inspector whatsoever.

Why was it so important to him? What did it matter whether he saw Mycroft again? How come one single man was able to entice him so much that he’d waste all that effort? They weren’t questions that he really wanted to examine deeper but at the same time couldn’t stop from entering his head, either.

Perhaps he was just lonely. It wasn’t as if the job of DI at NSY left much free time for keeping up with friends, much less having an active love life. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been out with someone that wasn’t in some way work-related, which was a depressing thought in itself.

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger, trying to dispel the tiredness that came from working long, gruelling hours for too long. Then he attempted to pull his focus back on the report he was supposed to be writing instead of being depressed about his fruitless searching but after only a few typed words the letters on the screen started to swim before his eyes once more. Another rub of his eyes ended with the same result and eventually he gave up, saving the document and shutting the computer off. He’d try again tomorrow; his team was overworked as it was and it wouldn’t do to foist it onto any of them, much as it was expected of him to do so.

Grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and his coat off the hat stand he headed towards the exit, nodding to the desk sergeant as he went. His original idea was just to head home and either straight into bed or onto the couch. It was closing in on 11pm and he was knackered to the point that it was evident in his tail; it was hanging limply behind him, with no twitch, swish or any of the movements it would normally have. It looked ruffled and unkempt; quite a cry from the normally well groomed state in which Greg maintained it. It was expected and so he did it.

He changed his mind when he walked past a bar and a blast of laughter suddenly came through the open door which made him stop. It had been a long and gruelling case which had thankfully wrapped up relatively well – he deserved some sort of night out and, if he could swing it, perhaps a warm body to share his bed with, even if only for a few hours. It would hopefully soothe his loneliness and help him get over his wish to initiate further contact with Mycroft that wasn’t reciprocated.

Squaring his shoulders and dragging out a smile from who knew where, he turned and walked purposefully towards the bar door. It had been quite a while and he was probably rusty as hell when it came to flirting but he was going to give it a damn good try. If all else failed, he could probably count on his dishevelled-looking tail to at least garner him some sympathy and that he could work with.

 

* * *

 

 

Across the city, in an office that managed to be both opulent and austere, a tall figure sat in a high-backed leather swivel chair, slightly hunched over a Georgian mahogany desk as he stared at a computer screen. His fingers were steepled and placed just under his chin and the expression on his face would leave a strong sense of apprehension if anyone was looking.

What he was looking it was the video feed off of several cameras that monitored select locations in London. At the moment his gaze was fixed on one showing, among other people, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a tail which was looking rather neglected. He had stopped for a moment but was making his way towards somewhere out of shot with an air of determination. Eyes of indecipherable colour followed the man’s movements until he was out of view of that camera or any of the others covering the area. Given the direction he was headed, though, it was not difficult, with a look at a London map, to work out exactly he was going.

A file was laid quietly on the desk beside him. He glanced down, saw the content and looked up at the one who had brought him the documents. Then he flashed a small smile.

“Thank you, Anthea,” he said quietly. Ignoring the by that point irrelevant camera feed, he opened up the file, flicking through the documents quickly as he assessed them. “This is everything?”

“All the information on who he has tried to gain intelligence from,” Anthea replied shortly, her focus on the device in her hands.

It was quite an extensive list and Mycroft found himself somewhat impressed; the inspector obviously had far more and better connections than anticipated. It was fortunate, then, that the ones he should have talked to in order to gain information was equally as difficult to locate as the elder Holmes himself. He had made quite sure of that. After all, how could you run a country efficiently if everyone knew just who you were and what you were doing? Just look at the Prime Minister, the poor man. He thought he had some influence and that he actually made a difference.

Mycroft closed the folder, a look of contemplation on his face as his thoughts returned to the problem in hand.

There was no question that the DI was quite determined to initiate further contact, given the lengths he’d gone to in an effort to find him. Rather, the question was why the silver fox wanted that contact in the first place. What was his motive? Was there an ulterior reason? Furthermore, did Mycroft want the attention and if so, to what extent did he want it? More importantly, could he _afford_ to have that kind of attention? Would it be beneficial or detrimental to his work?

As he mulled these questions over in a mind that was no less sharp than his younger brother’s, though the use to which they’d chosen to put it differed greatly, he studiously ignored the tightness in his chest that hadn’t abated since he’d first seen the live camera feed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This wasn’t the brightest idea he’d ever had, Greg had to concede with some reluctance. He was seated at the bar, glass of scotch in one hand as he looked out across the sea of people. It wasn’t all that surprising, given that it was a Friday night, that the room would be packed but to look at them and see nothing but what appeared to be young, smiling people with fit bodies and sleek tails were not helping his mood all that much.

He felt old, looking at them; old, cynical and most certainly out of place, a feeling which had only grown the longer he stayed at the club. Letting out a deeply felt sigh, he put the tumbler to his lips and drained the last of the amber liquid. The smoked taste burned all the way down his throat, which seemed oddly fitting for his day. It was past time to go home.

“Leaving already?” asked someone unseen when Lestrade made it to his feet. He turned his head to see who was talking and if indeed they were talking to him.

There stood a blonde woman of below average height who was at least fifteen years his junior, if not twenty, with blonde, curly hair that would have been right at home back in the 80s, a pretty, sweetheart face and a enticing smile. Her hands were on her hips and she was looking directly at the inspector. Beside her, and very close, stood a man closer to average height with light, strawberry blond hair; his features revealed them to be at least related in some way and he was smiling too, though his smile was more cocky.

“If you’re referring to me, yes, I am.”

She smiled again. “That’s a shame. We were hoping you’d allow us to buy you a drink.”

Greg managed not to let his surprise show. “That’s...well. Either you’re winding me up or you’re being very unsubtle in your pick-up lines. Whichever is the case, thank you but no thank you. It’s been a long week and I’m too tired for either, so goodnight.”

He fished out his wallet to pay for the drinks he’d already had only to stiffen in shock as he felt fingers in the fur of his tail.

Growling slightly under his breath in warning, he flicked the tail forcefully enough to dislodge the hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Neither of the two seemed particularly put out by his dismissal of them. “Just wanted to give you a bit of an incentive to stay,” the man shrugged, moving a little closer. “And it’s a very nice tail.”

“Right now it’s messy and unkempt,” Greg retorted, “and what’s more, it’s _mine_.” He didn’t notice but they had succeeded in dragging his attention away from leaving. “It’s not for grabbing or fondling by whoever feels like it.”

“Don’t mind my...friend, he can be a bit...direct,” the woman said with another smile, sitting down on the bar stool beside Lestrade, which strangely enough was empty. Her grey tail laid itself neatly across one skirt-covered thigh as she sat down. “You just looked a bit lonely up here and we wanted to see if we could get a smile out of you.”

“Why?” He couldn’t help asking the question.

“Honestly? Because you’re kind of hot.”

The disbelieving snort came before Greg had a chance to stop it. He raised his eyebrows completely on purpose, though, as he looked at them both. They smirked in return.

The younger man went behind the inspector, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing until he sat down on his stool again. As he did so, his back brushed the other man’s front and he felt something that was definitely interested.

“I don’t tell lies, old man,” the redhead whispered in his ear, “at least not about that. You’ve got half the people in the room wondering what a silver is doing in here and the other half worried you’re here to nick them. Quite a few of them want to bang you anyway.”

“Then why are you the only ones here?” There were now fingers running up and down the side of his neck and on his thighs, which made a shiver run through the somewhat touch-starved silver fox. Normally, he’d have brushed them off completely but he had to admit it felt good – and hadn’t he come into the club in the hope of finding someone to alleviate the loneliness?

“We see a challenge, we face it right away,” the woman answered, keeping the movement of her fingers light as they moved over a thigh covered by suit trousers.

“So what do you say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this. I don't intend for Greg to be a sex-magnet or anything with the last conversation. Just to let you know. If I had anything more to say, I've forgotten :)
> 
> Feedback would be treasured immensely ;) You know the drill

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray, first chapter done and I hope it's been as fun to read as it was to write.   
> A few notes:  
> Appleby refers to Sir Humphrey Appleby, the Permanent Secretary in the political TV-series "Yes Minister"  
> The Met, or NSY, calls their highest officer a commissioner instead of chief constable.
> 
> Feedback, including constructive criticism, is dearly loved and treasured.


End file.
